Once Alone, Always Alone
by Ushanka
Summary: The main kids of South Park are now freshmen in high school. This story is told from Butters' point of view, and it basically deals with the way he copes with all the abuse thrown at him. NO SLASH in this one, sorry. At least, I'm not planning on it.
1. Prologue

**Once Alone, Always Alone **

_Prologue _

One picture. That's all I have. One tangible memory of the time when_ they_ owned me. No, not "they" as in my parents; they tried as hard as they could to own me, but they couldn't. My father is dead; my mother doesn't much exist anymore, at least not the way I knew her. Everyone else – that's who I'm talking about. From the beginning, they'd made me into their pet – pushing me around, coercing me to do everything for them that they didn't want to do, laughing behind my back every step of the way. The only thing I regret is letting them use me the way they did. Well, they can't do it anymore. Nobody can break you down if you don't have an identity.

I suppose I keep this photograph because it's part of my past. As much as it's a past I would like to renounce from my memory, it certainly helps to remind me not to fall for the same scheme all over again. That's something I've never been good at – standing up to people. Even those whom I knew were bad news after they revealed their true intentions to me – Eric Cartman and Kyle Broflovski, for instance – still managed to intimidate me into submission. I remember when I was a kid, maybe nine years old or so, I tried getting back at them by inventing a new character for myself. "Professor Chaos," I called him. He was my alter-ego, something into which I could channel all my pain and frustration. Of course, I never ended up actually doing much to fight back; that was nothing more than a childhood fantasy. I've since learned the real way to defend myself against them and anyone else, and for me, that's to fade away into the background. I was destined to disappear from people all my life; might as well accept it, right?

It disturbs me how happy I look in this picture. Two girls on either side of me, giggling and doing my hair up in little stubby pigtails with their hair-ties. One of the girls had long raven hair under a pink headband; the other had a mass of blond curls pulled back in a ponytail. There I was in the middle with a dumb grin stretched across my face, probably thinking they were laughing right along with me. They may have been, but who knew for sure? Only they did, and they sure as hell weren't going to tell me if they weren't. They liked seeing me make an ass out of myself. Everyone did, don't you know.

There are people in the background worth mentioning as well.. I guess. Stan Marsh, Kyle Broflovski, and Eric Cartman were the kids sitting on the couch behind us, drinking sodas and probably watching a movie or something. Those guys were the perfect example of the fake attitude that the world seemed to love to exhibit around me – friendly and sweet on the surface, but a bunch of no-good, heartless assholes underneath. Even now, it pains me to look at any of their faces, knowing how drastically they changed my life in a matter of minutes. It's been two years exactly since that horrible night, but if any one of them apologized to my face this minute, I still wouldn't forgive them. I have a hard enough time categorizing them as human beings.

Someone's sitting outside the house, and you can see them through the window above the couch. At least, you can sort of see them; all there is is the top part of an orange hood and a hand holding a cigarette. Though his face isn't visible, I can still instantly recall the name: Kenny McCormick. He was one of the more decent ones of the crowd. Though I didn't get to hang out with him as much as the others, he was the one who seemed the most genuine and seemed to understand me the most. If I ever had to see anyone from that God-forsaken town again, it might be him. Maybe. That is, if he hasn't gone the route of his bastard friends by now.

Well, those days are over, and I don't need to worry about those particular people ever again. I haven't taken even the slightest glance back in the direction of South Park, Colorado, and I don't feel like doing so ever. The outside world is my home, yet the people living in it aren't my family. Actually, nobody is family to me, but that's what I'm used to by now. I'm a loner, and until some bright, shining day comes when I'm able to trust humanity again, that's what I'll always be.


	2. Chapter I

_Chapter I_

"Red! Hey, Red, take a picture of us!" Wendy Testaburger called into the kitchen as she seated herself on the left arm of the chair and flung her arm around my shoulders. I sat in the chair between her and Bebe Stevens, who was brandishing a disposable camera as if it were on fire.

"Huh?" the short, ginger-haired girl asked as she rooted through the cooler on the kitchen table.

Bebe maneuvered a little closer to the archway so she could see Red more easily. "You've gotta see this," she shouted over the cacophony of voices around us. It was quite loud in the Marsh household. This was understandable – Stan was having his fifteenth birthday party tonight, and he had invited at least twenty people over to the house, if not more. Some people were upstairs hitting the Gamecube, others were in the living room watching _Saw II,_ and still others were getting their hair done up in pigtails by a couple of giddy girls. Actually, I was pretty sure that last category consisted solely of me.

Red returned to the living room with a can of root beer. As soon as her gaze reached the spot where we were, she looked directly at me and burst into laughter. "Oh my gosh," she giggled. "He looks so adorable!"

I smiled and blushed a bit, unsure of how to react. "Thanks?" I replied uncertainly as I tugged at the yellow hair-tie attached to the left side of my head. As much as I was having fun, I still wished they hadn't done those pigtails so tightly.

"How do you feel, Butters?" Bebe asked.

I considered the question. "Special? Yeah.. I feel special," I responded. All three girls started cracking up again, and I joined them. It felt good to know that people were laughing with me for once.

Red received the camera from Bebe's hand, stepped back a bit, and aimed it at the three of us. "Okay, smush in a little closer, you guys," she instructed. Bebe wrapped her arm around my shoulders as she and Wendy huddled in close to me, and I offered a wide grin as the blinding flash hit my eyes.

"I am SO putting this picture on Facebook," Bebe commented as she took the camera back from Red.

" 'Ay!" a brash voice yelled from behind. "Would ya go take pictures of your gay little hairstyles in the other room? I can't hear the movie!"

"Oh, get over yourself, Cartman," Wendy retorted. "Hey, Butters, let's go show the guys upstairs!"

"Uh, no, I think the picture was enough," I started to say, but Wendy had already grabbed my hand and was dragging me on up to Stan's bedroom, where Craig, Token, Clyde, and Tweek were crowded around the Gamecube, playing some game I had never seen before. None of them lifted their gaze from the TV screen as we entered.

"Look what we did to Butters' hair!" Wendy squealed, shoving me toward the group. I turned and gave her a Look of Death, but she didn't seem to notice.

"Uh, Wendy.. we don't care," Craig muttered as he furiously tapped buttons on his controller.

"GAH, CRAP!! C'mon-c'mon-c'mon-c'mon-c'mon-c'mon," Tweek stammered, his right eye twitching as he jabbed at one button repeatedly.

Token glanced over at Tweek with a hint of annoyance. "Dude, that's not fair. Tweek's got so much caffeine in his system, he'll kill us all in the first ten seconds."

I looked around for the case the game came in, but didn't see it anywhere. "What game is that?" I asked them.

"Shhh!" Clyde hissed. "Oh, dammit, I fell off the cliff. Thanks a ton, Butters."

"What-_ever,"_ Wendy announced. "Go ahead and play your stupid game. We're outta here." Before she could drag me off anywhere else, I walked out of the room as quickly as I could. She was starting to annoy the hell out of me. Maybe it was just that she was generally really happy and energetic tonight, but I was getting sick of it. Of course, I wouldn't go right out and tell her that to her face; the best thing for me to do was escape from her. It was much easier that way.

With some effort, I removed the ponytail holders and ran my fingers through my hair so it would look at least somewhat normal. Then I went into the living room and joined Shelley, Stan, Kyle, and Cartman in front of the TV, where an image was being shown of a brunette girl screaming in a pit full of hypodermic needles.

"Ugh, man. I think I'm gonna barf," Stan murmured, doubling over slightly.

"Stan, you're such a pussy," Cartman remarked. "This kicks ass!"

_"This _kicks ass?" I replied uneasily. Of course, anything depicting severe pain and gore was cool to him. I agreed with Stan; I was having a hard time watching the scene myself.

At that moment, Stan's mother walked into the room. "Who wants cake?" she asked us all with a cheerful expression. Almost too cheerful, I observed.

Cartman looked up suddenly. "Cake? Where's cake? I want cake!" he shouted as he got up and started to make a dash for the kitchen. Although his weight problem had diminished considerably since his elementary school days, he still had just as much of an appetite as ever, especially for junk food. Actually, there was very little about his personality that had changed at all.

Mrs. Marsh stopped him gently. "Now, you know you're supposed to wait until we sing to Stan, you guys," she reminded everyone.

Cartman's shoulders slumped. "Aw, man."

Mrs. Marsh directed a concerned look toward her son, who quickly covered up for Cartman's selfish behaviour. "He's just kidding, Mom. I'll go upstairs and tell the guys, okay?"

"All right," she replied. "Shelley, do you want to get out the plates while I put the candles on the cake?"

Shelley rolled her eyes and sighed loudly and conspicuously, but she got up off the couch and did as her mother asked. Meanwhile, the rest of us made our way into the kitchen as well.

I noticed a distinctive odor coming from the orange-hooded boy next to me, and my nose wrinkled automatically. "Kenny, were you outside smoking?" I asked him.

"Shhh!" Kenny whispered, nodding toward Mrs. Marsh.

"Dude, it's not like nobody's going to smell it," Kyle whispered back. "And besides, if she notices, she's not going to care."

Stan agreed. "Yeah. Shelley smokes all the time, and Mom doesn't give a crap."

"Shelley's also eighteen," I pointed out.

"Whatever, Butters. Kenny's gonna be fine," Kyle told me. "Hey, Stan, your dad's here."

Randy Marsh entered the room, his arms loaded with presents. Without saying a word to his wife, he turned to us and beamed. "Who's ready to start?" he asked us, setting the brightly-wrapped boxes on the table with all the others.

"Me! Me!" Cartman yelled.

"Yes, we know you want cake. Shut the hell up," said Craig.

Stan's dad led us all in the birthday song, and Stan blew out all fifteen candle-flames in one long breath. As we clapped and cheered, Mrs. Marsh began to cut the cake into even slices and put each one on a paper plate for us to choose. Meanwhile, Shelley stuck a scoop in a gallon container of vanilla ice cream and set several bottles of chocolate syrup on the counter. All the desserts looked absolutely delicious.

"Didja make a good wish, Stan?" I asked. Without responding, the birthday-boy took a slice of cake and maneuvered past the crowd into the living room, and Kyle, Kenny, Cartman, and I followed him.

Cartman had already inhaled the contents of his plate by the time we got back to the couch. "That cake was totally awesome!" he stated. "I want that bitch to bake me some of that for _my _birthday!"

"Yeah, it's really good," I told Stan. "Man, I wish I had your family."

Stan gave me a confused look. "Why? You know they're just acting all nice because it's my birthday. My sister still hates me, and my parents have been fighting a lot more than they ever used to."

"At least your family is still together," I muttered.

Stan clearly didn't know what to say; he merely shrugged and started talking to Kyle. Well, I couldn't help it – ever since my parents went their separate ways three months before, I looked upon families like the Marshes with envy. Yes, I noticed that his mom and dad weren't communicating very much recently, but in that situation, I saw hope. Not only had my parents not spoken with each other since August, but they didn't show any signs of ever wanting to see each other's faces again.

As the rest of the party guests chattered on and had a good time, I sank back into the couch cushion and set my plate on the coffee table. I didn't really want to eat anymore now that I remembered where I had to go after the party was over. My mother's house was a bit more bearable than my father's, but it still wasn't something I looked forward to all that much. She had been unbelievably stressed lately, and for good reason, but she never missed a chance to take it out on me – yelling at me for the slightest mishaps, even ones I hadn't caused. I was beginning to grow tired of being the punching-bag for my parents and their stupid divorce. Maybe I could ask to stay the night here or something –I hated inviting myself anywhere, but as long as I could get away, it was worth the risk of seeming impolite.

"Stan?" I asked suddenly.

Stan turned to face me. "Yeah?"

Already, I could feel the old nervousness coming back – it wasn't really my nature to ask for favours like this. "Uh.. w-would you mind if I stayed over here tonight? I don't really want to go back to my mom's."

Stan grimaced and looked at the floor. "I'm sorry, man. I have to help clean up everything after the party's over, and then I have to finish my English project. I waited until tonight to do most of it, and I can't get a D this time or I'll get grounded for three weeks."

"Dude, that's weak," Cartman said. "My mom would've cleaned up everything herself."

I looked at Stan. He really did seem sorry, so I couldn't rightfully be angry at him. "That's okay," I sighed. "Ya gotta do what ya gotta do, I guess."

As the party went on, I tried to act happy and forget about where I was going next. _I'll be fine,_ I repeated to myself over and over. _I was okay the last time; I'll be okay tonight. Just don't let her get to you; you'll survive. _This was my mantra for every time I was forced to go to either one of my parents' houses; I could only pray that it would keep me from letting myself get hurt tonight.


	3. Chapter II

_Chapter II_

Nine-thirty at night. That was when I was expected to be home. The windows in my mother's house were all dark except for one - the living room stayed partially lit. I scrutinized the front door in front of me - the elaborate designs carved into the wood, the burgundy paint chipping and peeling around the doorknob. Anyone who passed our house and saw this innocent door would never know exactly what it hid behind it. Maybe it was a good thing that they didn't. Why should they know and share the tension that abounded behind these walls?

I took my time as I withdrew the house key from my pocket. _Here we go, _I thought as I pressed the jagged piece of metal into the lock and turned it. _Just remember your mantra, Butters. You'll be okay if you think you will._

I pushed the door open slowly. My mother was sitting calmly on the couch, her head ducked slightly forward, facing the muted television with a blank expression -- seeing, but not watching. The dark circles under her eyes were a sign that she hadn't slept well. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a loose, frazzled ponytail, and she wore a plain navy-blue T-shirt and sweatpants. A pair of knitting needles lay on the cushion next to her with a few rows of kelly-green yarn attached, and a coffee pot and mug stood on the end-table. Though no words had yet been exchanged, I could practically see the apprehension hanging in the air, stretching from wall to wall like cobwebs, waiting to be broken.

"Hi, Mom," I started, and my voice broke in the fragile atmosphere. She looked up at me; her expression didn't change. I moved over to the couch and sat down next to her.

"Hi, Butters. How was the party?" She pronounced the words like a tired robot; lethargically, deliberately, and without emotion.

"It was good. Stan got a lot of good stuff, like a new bass guitar. I wish I had one of those." I actually didn't really want one that badly; it was merely an attempt to try to break the ice.

"Wow, that's good for Stan," she responded artificially. "So you had fun?"

I smiled. "Yeah. We were all acting kinda silly, though. These girls put my hair up in pigtails and took a picture of it. I'll show it to ya sometime. It's pretty funny."

"That's nice." My mother picked up her knitting needles abruptly and started rapidly working on another row. It was clear that she was in another one of her moods and wanted to be left alone. But she looked so unhappy that I couldn't help slipping in one last comment.

"Ya know.. you really shouldn't let Dad get to you so much. It's bad for you."

She stopped and looked at me again, but this time her eyes contained a spark of anger. "_Don't _talk about him to me," she said sharply.

I was taken aback for a second, but recovered quickly. This sort of explosive behaviour had become typical of her. "All I'm saying is that maybe you should focus on something else for a change. Think about something good, ya know?" I smiled at her, hoping that she would exhibit at least a little bit of a positive reaction.

But no -- she seemed to be determined to stay upset. "I'll think about what I want to think about. Now go upstairs to your room and watch TV or something." She continued to knit even faster.

I gave her an imploring look. "Mom, please.. just listen to me. You're always brooding about Dad. You hardly ever go out with your friends anymore. I know he hurt you a lot, and it's hard for me, too. But you've gotta be able to move on and be happy."

Now my mother threw her knitting needles onto the floor, stood up, and glowered at me. "Don't try to preach to me, young man!" she snapped.

Well, of course she'd react like that. Shaking off the instinctive feelings of guilt and fear, I straightened up and looked her in the eyes. "I was just trying to help you," I told her firmly. "Why do you have to act like this?"

She would not be budged. "You're not helping a damn thing. I wanted to be left alone, and I get this kind of crap from you? Well, you know what? I don't need your insolence." The fire in her gaze intensified as her eyes narrowed. "You know, whenever I look at you, I see your worthless, cheating, bastard father. It makes me sick, you know that?"

I put a hand to my face. "Well, I kinda can't help what I look like."

She didn't respond to me. Instead, the next words that came out of her mouth were the exact ones I had hoped she wouldn't say.

"You're going to your father's tonight. I'm taking you there right now. I need some peace and quiet." 

I was outraged. "What!? But Mom--"

"Don't argue with me, you little brat!" she barked, giving me a good backhand across the cheek. "Now go outside and get in the car."

So THAT'S how she was going to start dealing with things now. Just shove the kid off on his dad; yes, because that was going to help matters. Why was it that both my parents chose to escape from their own emotional problems instead of facing them and taking the appropriate action to get past them? No matter where I was, I was still her kid, whether she liked it or not. She was supposed to be my mother, the one family member who loved and cared about me more than any other, and here she was, shrugging me off.

Before she could yell anything else at me, I hurried out the front door. The old, banged-up Toyota was sitting in the driveway, and I opened the door and climbed into the back seat. Inside, I slammed my fist into the back of the seat in front of me. I wished I had asked other people if I could stay over at one of their houses. Kyle's, Kenny's, or Tweek's might have been nice. Even Cartman's house was beginning to look like a better place to stay than my father's - at least his mom acted like a mom and not like a mental patient. Why did I have to get stuck with the most unstable parents in the world?

_Chapter II (continued)_

_Slam. _The door shut loudly -- so loudly I could hear it with the windows rolled up -- and suddenly my mother was tearing her way across the yard to the car. Her brow was furrowed and her lips were pursed rigidly -- a look that always made me cringe. She opened the driver's seat door, got inside, and started the engine, obviously restraining herself from doing anything too violently.

"How long do I have to stay at Dad's?" I asked her.

She wouldn't even look at me. "We'll see, Butters," she murmured.

_We'll see. _I hated that answer, because it usually meant the unfavourable outcome. This time, it probably meant I'd be staying at my dad's for at least three or four days, possibly a week. I sat back in my seat and said no more -- it was best not to provoke her any further. The five-minute drive seemed like a half-hour as I stared out the window at the passing yards and streets, averting my line of vision from any possible evil-eye she might direct at me.

The intensity in the air was too much. As we turned on the street where my father lived, I already had my hand on the door-handle. Though the car was still moving a bit when we approached the house, I opened the door and jumped out anyway, and I stumbled and fell down onto my father's front lawn. My mother didn't seem to care -- she merely turned the car around in the driveway and proceeded back the way she came. The sound of the motor made a decrescendo back into the subtle stirrings of the night, and I knew that I was safe.

The scent of dead leaves and grass filled my nose and the slight chill of the breeze grazed my arms and cheeks. I lay there for a minute and let myself relax, absorbing the essence of the cool October night. The ground was still damp due to the earlier rainfall, but I didn't mind. I shifted my right arm a little and rested my head on it. I knew I couldn't stay out here forever. Anyone who passed by and saw a random kid sprawled out in somebody's front yard would undoubtedly do a double-take; I probably looked so awkward. Besides, my dad would eventually notice, and he'd find some reason to yell at me for it.

Hoisting myself up off the ground, I gazed across the street at Kyle's house. Nobody was watching me at the moment. Maybe I could make a run for it and somehow convince Kyle and his parents to let me stay the night. I was sure they wouldn't object. Kyle and I had started to become better friends recently, and I'd spent the night there a couple times before. Rubbing at a small patch of mud on my pant leg, I glanced at the street both ways and got into a running stance..

But before I could take a step, I heard the creak of the storm door behind me -- and a familiar voice that made my heart plunge. "Butters? What are you doing out there?" came the words in a slightly slurred voice.

_CRAP, _I thought furiously. It was just like me to have the absolute worst timing ever. I looked back over my shoulder, and there was my father, standing with his right arm up against the wall inside the house as if he was steadying himself. A glass bottle was in his left hand, half-filled with a clear liquid. _Stupid booze, _I scoffed inwardly. _Dammit, Dad, why do you have to be such a drunk?_

It appeared that I had no choice -- I had to go inside, or I'd get my ass kicked. I dragged my steps as I went, taking as much time as I could to get up to the house. The man waited in the doorway with a slight smile on his face, a smile in which I detected no sincerity. "Hi, Butters, how's it going? Coming over for the week early?" he asked me, extending his hand for me to shake.

Reluctantly, I returned the gesture. "I'm doing okay." I brushed past him and made my way to my bedroom. The best thing I could do when my dad was intoxicated, I reasoned, was to minimize all greetings and get away quickly. He didn't seem so bad now, but that would get worse very quickly. Usually, he wouldn't bother me as long as I stayed out of his sight.

This time, however, he didn't just ignore me. "Wait, where are you going?" he inquired from the end of the hallway.

"I'm going to my room. I don't feel good," I responded over my shoulder, still walking.

My father followed me across the hall. "Hmm, that's too bad," he said. "Why's that?"

"I just.. don't. I need to lie down."

He shrugged, took another sip of his drink, and went back to the den; I entered my room and immediately collapsed onto my bed. I hadn't realized how exhausted I was until now. The quilt I was lying on was warm and soft, and I pulled it around me and rested my head on my pillow. Maybe it wouldn't hurt if I closed my eyes for just a minute..


	4. Chapter III

_**Chapter III**_

I sat up violently and looked at the clock on my nightstand. _10:42 PM,_ the blue numbers blazed. Good -- I'd only been asleep for forty-five minutes, tops. I'd be able to sleep for a reasonable amount of time tonight. Stretching, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood up. I needed a drink of something; I wasn't sure that I'd had much to drink all day. Hopefully, there would be something non-alcoholic in the refrigerator.

I went to the kitchen and opened the fridge door. It didn't have much in the way of liquid refreshments -- mostly beer, as I'd figured, but there were a couple cans of Pibb on the middle shelf. I took one and leaned against the counter, gulping it down thirstily. Meanwhile, the television in the den was blasting, and I shot an annoyed look in the direction of it. What the hell was he watching, and why did it have to be at full volume?

In the den, my father was slumped on the couch, looking a good deal more zoned-out than the last time I'd seen him. He had his arm slung over the back of the couch, holding the remote control, and the bottle he'd been carrying earlier was sitting on the coffee table, noticeably less full than before. When he saw me, he started talking, but I couldn't understand what he was saying over the blaring car commercial that was on. Rolling my eyes, I turned and hit the MUTE button. His face took on a scowl at this reaction, but I brushed it off.

"What'd you say?" I asked.

"I was telling you to take out the trash. Now, you either do it now, or you face your punishment later." He spoke with much more of a drawling tone now, and I realized that he was truly drunk. Now was the time when I had to be extra-careful around him -- either do what he told me to do or just lie and say that I would, and I'd be okay.

Taking the garbage out wasn't such a bad chore, though. "All right," I replied, and started back to the kitchen to grab a trash bag. Once I'd collected the garbage from every room in the house, I went to put the bag in the trash can outside.

As I was dragging the can up to the edge of the street, I peered over at Kyle's house again thoughtfully. It was pretty dark right now, so maybe my father wouldn't be able to see me from the window if I ran across the street. But could I risk it? Would I be disturbing Kyle's family? Would Kyle even be awake?

Yes, I decided. I would take the chance. The street was empty, and no cars seemed to be anywhere close, so I broke into a sprint, being careful to minimize the noise as my feet rapped against the concrete. In less than ten seconds, I was standing on the lawn of the Broflovski home. None of their lights were on, I observed. I knocked softly at Kyle's window three times; nobody answered. I waited fifteen seconds, and then I tried again, slightly louder this time. As I waited for a response from him, I felt a little stirring of guilt. I probably shouldn't be doing this -- he needed to go to school tomorrow, and so did I.

But the window creaked slightly and then cracked open, and a pair of jade-green eyes stared out at me, puzzled. "Butters? Is that you?" said the half-whispered voice of Kyle.

"Yeah," I told him, keeping my voice at the same level of volume that his was. "Hey, uh.. I know this is weird, but can I ask you a favour?"

"What?" The eyes continued to peer at me through longish ringlets of auburn hair.

I took a glance back toward my father's house, then turned back to him. "I hate to ask, but.. could I stay over here tonight? My dad's really drunk again, and I'm afraid he's going to kick my ass again if I don't get away somehow."

A hand reached up and smoothed the ringlets to one side, and the eyes blinked. "Dude, how come you've never asked about this before?"

"I dunno, it's just a feeling I have," I replied. "Maybe I've been thinking about it more because my mom's been so tense the past few days, but I've.. I've decided I wanna step up and show them that I can do something for myself. W-would it be okay?"

Kyle looked to one side. "Actually, I don't know if you should. It might just make things worse. I mean, it's not like your dad's not going to notice that you're gone."

"Well, I was thinking you could get your mom to call him or something and tell him I'm over here and I'm safe and whatever. He'll probably be so out of it that he'll just say it's fine."

He sighed. "I'd do it, Butters, but I don't think it's going to do you any good. You're just going to get your ass kicked even harder when you go back. He might even come over here and demand that you get back to the house right away, and there won't have been any point."

I was getting desperate. "Listen, Kyle, I know it sounds like a stupid idea, but I just need to get away for _one night._ I'm tired of my parents. And if I can just not have to be around either of them for this one night, that'd be fine with me. They'll probably end up kicking me out of both their houses eventually anyway -- neither of them ever wants me around. Please, Kyle, could ya just help me out?"

Kyle was clearly reluctant, but he slid the window all the way up and offered his hand to help me through. "Go ahead and get in here. Don't say I didn't warn you, though."

Balancing myself on the windowsill with my right hand, I placed my left in Kyle's hand and began to lift myself through and into his room. I was halfway into the house when Kyle lost his grip on my hand, and I nearly lost my balance. "Kyle, what's going on?" I wanted to know.

Kyle stared straight past me, and his eyes were wide. "Ohh.. shit," he whispered in a dead monotone. "I knew this was gonna happen."

"What?" I asked. Before Kyle could open his mouth to reply, I felt two rough hands on my ankles, yanking me through the window so hard that my chin caught on the sill and sent a pounding pain into my jaw.

_"There you are,_ you little son of a bitch," growled a horribly familiar voice behind me as the hands dragged me across the yard by my feet. I tried grabbing onto clumps of grass to stall myself, but to no avail. Looking above me, I saw a light click on in the upstairs level of Kyle's home, and the shadow of Mrs. Broflovski stood there, facing out from behind the glass. Kyle was still at his own window, gaping at me as my father continued to pull me over the lawn and across the rough surface of the pavement. This was the last thing I saw before I was literally flung across the floor of my father's house, and I landed up against the wall as my father slammed and locked the front door behind me.

As soon as we were out of hearing distance, he exploded. "What the hell do you think you're doing, trying to run away?" he bellowed. The walls shook, and my bones shook too; I pulled myself up into a sitting position and gazed at his face.. that distorted face, so full of rage. Never in my life had I been in so much trouble. I'd seen him angry before, but I had no idea what to expect now.

"Dad, I'm.. I'm sorry, I really am!" I shouted. There was no verbal response from him. He simply turned his back and moved away from me, toward the stairs, into the closet by the front door, and.. what? _What _was he doing? Taking a _belt _from the -- no. No, he couldn't actually be planning to _use_ that thing on me. My father played mostly off threats, and I was sure this was just another way to intimidate me. Yes, that was exactly what it was.. nothing to worry about..

But as he turned back to face me, something from the look in his eyes told me it wasn't just a threat. A well of panic started in my stomach and spread throughout my torso. He couldn't do this to me. I knew deep in my heart that no matter what I had done wrong, I didn't deserve this. Nobody did.

"Dad, what are you doing!?" I cried. "Put the belt down! This isn't you!"

Through narrowed eyes, I studied the man; he stood before me with a glazed look and an unsteady posture, the awful strip of metal and leather in his right hand. This was not my father; it was a time-bomb, a land mine comprised of flesh, blood, and alcohol, and it was ready to go off again at the slightest wrong step I took. 

I stood up and glared into my father's eyes. No way was I going to let him get away with that shit. _"Put.. the belt.. down."_

"Who's gonna make me?" he shot back, almost childishly. With a large, swinging motion of his arm, he brought the belt up in front of my face. "This is _mine, _and I can do whatever I want with it. And _you can't stop me." _He sang the words like a six-year-old with a man's voice, swaying the belt back and forth in rhythm.

"Put the belt DOWN, you DRUNK BASTARD!" I shouted, and was instantly horrified at the words that left my lips. I had just unlocked the door to a punishment even worse than I would have received otherwise.

Suddenly, he lunged at me, gripped my shoulders with inhuman strength, and jerked me close to his face. "You little smartass. You think you can just say anything you want, don't ya? Well, Butters, you have NO idea what kind of trouble you're in right now," he snarled. I could almost feel the heat radiating from his stare as he shoved me backward.

I tumbled to the ground, reeling from the shock, a cold feeling of weakness creeping throughout my head, neck, and limbs. Frantically, I tried pushing myself off the floor, but my arms were useless. Any second now, he was going to ram that belt buckle into my side, and there was nothing I could do about it. If I hit him or ran away, he'd find me, and I'd get it even worse. The only thing I could think of to do was to lie there and bear the pain. I could do it; I just had to remember to be strong. Clenching my hands into fists, I concentrated all my tension into them and waited for the first stroke.. 


	5. Chapter IV

I stared at my reflection, unblinking, unmoving. How could that face — the face I'd had all my life — have changed so quickly into something I could barely recognize? Bright blue eyes, now turned dull, greyish, and hollow. Golden-blond hair, now stringy and uneven, two straggly locks hanging lifelessly over my right cheek. Fair complexion, now turned blotchy and ashen; lips set in a listless line; clothes dishevelled, with a small thread hanging off the left sleeve of my shirt. And yet, I thought — all signs of this abuse, every trace of tears will have disappeared perfectly by the next morning. And the next morning would open a new day, a new opportunity to get beaten down again in some way or another. And I'd let it happen, because that's what I always did, and I'd live life this way forever, without a single battle scar to show for it all. Consciousness had become my enemy.

Above all, I felt the continual burning shame of having made such a ridiculous decision in the first place. Kyle was right -- there was no way I could have pulled that off, and I was an idiot to have even suggested it. How could I have thrown my sense of logic completely out the window like that? All I had done was caused a disturbance to him and his family, and, like Kyle had said, gotten my ass kicked even harder than I would have otherwise. I wouldn't be surprised if he was angry with me, too -- I deserved it. In fact, if it hadn't been for my unfailing stupidity, I probably wouldn't even have been beaten. Maybe -- maybe it _was _all my fault that I had been punished this way.

That stabbing pain in my left side slashed into my thoughts. Dad sure knew where to place the bruises so they wouldn't be seen. Cautiously, I lifted my shirt up to see the wounds, and I watched as the figure in the mirror revealed his own. Deep red-and-purple welts, each one of them an emblem of my own idiocy. Automatically, my mind began to trace lines between them like a sick and twisted version of connect-the-dots. I could see the outline of the belt stretching across the front of my stomach and the trail of swollen marks left by each hit from the buckle. The giant one on my left side had actually started bleeding a little, and I saw the small, crooked line of scarlet as it started to extend itself downward. I started to shake; partially from the pain, partially from the sheer horror of the experience.

"Butters!" The voice stung me, sent a searing knife down through my stomach. "What are you doing in there?"

"I — I was just about to take a shower, Dad. Er.. S-Sir," I called back through the closed bathroom door.

"Okay," the voice replied. "Hurry up. Other people need to use the shower too." The footsteps moved away.

Turning around, I took an old washcloth out of the linen closet. I went back to the sink, ran some warm water over the cloth, and carefully wiped the blood from my side. After drying it off, I found a large bandage in the medicine cabinet and placed it firmly over the small tear in the bruise so it wouldn't come off in the shower. I then removed my clothing, stepped behind the shower curtain, and turned the water on hot.

As soon as I was sure no one could hear me over the running water, I let everything go. I cried and cried until my body couldn't cry anymore, my burning tears mixing with the shower water as they flooded down my face. Thank God for the shower; it and sleep were often my only place to hide. I took as long as I could, much longer than normal, just to make sure every tear was out of me by the time I got out. When I was finished, I dried myself off, threw on a T-shirt and boxers, and brushed my teeth so I could go to bed.

I stopped and stared at myself in the mirror again, bewildered this time by a sudden thought. There it was, my stupid face, all swollen from sobbing; it stared back at me with wide grey eyes. Was I really prepared to do the deed my mind was telling me to do?

"Butters!" my father's voice rang out again. "You've been in the bathroom long enough. Get out and go to bed, now!"

"Y-yes, Sir," I responded quietly as I rinsed the toothbrush and put it away. As I opened the bathroom door to leave, I saw my father standing right in front of me in the dim hallway, and it nearly made me choke. For a heart-stopping second, I thought I'd receive another lashing just for having stayed in the shower too long.

But my father merely sighed in exasperation. "Finally," he muttered to himself. I could still smell the alcohol on his breath, and it sent a pang of nausea into my throat.

"G'night, Dad," I told him without meeting his eyes.

"Goodnight, Butters," he intoned. Without another word, he and I moved to our respective destinations, shutting the doors at the exact same time.

In the privacy of my room, I opened the middle drawer of my dresser, felt underneath the stacks of neatly folded shirts, and withdrew a small blue cardboard box with the word "Nytol" printed across it in bold white letters. I would definitely need something to help me fall asleep tonight; I still had too much anxiety in my system from the events of earlier. If only I could sleep forever — then I wouldn't have to worry about getting myself into this kind of trouble again. I knew that by taking this pill, I was still running away, but at least it was an acceptable way to escape. At least, it wouldn't bother anyone else, and it wouldn't get me hit with a belt.

Consciousness. Consciousness was the enemy; sleep was a blessing. I took a half-empty bottle of water from the top of my dresser and unscrewed the cap. After swallowing the Nytol, I gulped down all the water — I'd nearly forgotten how thirsty I still was. And as I lay my sore body down onto the mattress, I thought about how nice it would be not to see, hear, feel, or think for a long while. I'd taken a few extra sleep-aids this time.


	6. Interlude: 11:36 PM

_**Interlude – 11:36 PM.**  
_

_All was silent as Kyle stood on his front lawn and carefully closed his bedroom window behind him. He'd executed the escape perfectly; not even his mother, who was a light sleeper, had stirred. That was a relief. If she had heard him, he would have had to tell her the whole story, and common sense told him that he had to keep this incident between as few people as possible. He'd already had to play dumb when she'd asked him who was outside earlier. Fortunately, she trusted him, so she hadn't pressed the issue._

_Above all, he had to make sure Butters was okay. After he had witnessed what had happened to the kid an hour ago or so, he could very well figure what had taken place afterwards. As a true friend and possibly the only outsider who had any knowledge of what was going on, he felt that it was up to him to check on Butters. Mr. Stotch was probably unconscious by now, and there was no one else in the house to ensure Butters' safety. _

_The Stotch residence, like most other houses on this block by now, was almost deathly still. Yes, he was afraid of the alcoholic asswipe who owned the place, but now wasn't the time to puss out. Looking back one last time to make sure nobody in his own house was awake, Kyle drew in his breath and dashed across the street. _

_Butters' bedroom was on the side facing away from Kyle's house, first window on the right. Leaning against the outside of the house, Kyle inched his way along as quietly as he could, just in case Mr. Stotch hadn't yet passed out for the night. Soon he reached Butters' window, and he pulled it open a crack. It creaked a bit, and Kyle jumped at the sudden noise. "Butters?" he whispered through the shade. _

_No answer. Kyle felt a slight discomfort in his chest, but assured himself that Butters had probably gone to bed already. Slowly, tentatively, he cracked the window open a little wider, then a little wider still, praying that it wouldn't make any loud noises. Finally, the window had been lifted up high enough for Kyle to slip through, and he did, planting his feet on the floor as silently as a cat. _

_The room was barely lit by a nearby streetlight, but it was enough for Kyle to discern basic objects. Butters' dresser, his closet door, his nightstand, his bed -- and Butters himself, lying very still under the covers. Kyle found the lamp on the nightstand and fumbled about for the switch until he grasped it, and he flicked the lamp on. _

_The blond boy's face was partially hidden under his blanket, but Kyle could see that his skin looked awfully pale, even for him. Moving over to the bed, Kyle placed his hands on his friend's shoulders and shook them slightly. "Butters!" he whispered sharply. "Get up! It's Kyle. You okay?" _

_No response. Kyle decided to take a risk, and he raised his voice. "Butters, dude, wake up!" he demanded in a normal tone. He shook the boy's shoulders harder; still no response. Kyle began to grow uneasy; he'd have thought Butters would have awakened by now. And his skin was such an odd array of colours; pinkish in some places, nearly pure white in others. On a snap decision, Kyle pulled back the covers a bit and took Butters' wrist to feel for a pulse. _

_It was definitely there -- but there was something very wrong. Kyle didn't know a pulse could go that incredibly fast. Something had happened to Butters -- maybe he had fainted or was in shock or something. _If this is something that no-good, abusive bastard did,_ he thought in a flurry of concern and anger, _I'll kill him. I swear to God, I'll FCKING KILL THAT BITCH!!

_Kyle felt a real well of fear rising up inside him as he tried to come up with solutions. What would he do, pour cold water on the kid's face and hope he'd wake up? Stuck for ideas, he began to look around the room frantically, hoping something would come to him soon. _

_His eyes stopped on a little blue box sitting on Butters' dresser. It was clearly some kind of medication. Kyle dropped Butters' wrist and went over to pick it up, and sure enough, a little pack of twelve sleeping-pills slipped out. At least, it used to be twelve. Six of the tablets had been torn out. _

_A shudder shot through Kyle's body as he realized the significance of the missing pills. He hadn't seen anything happen, so he couldn't say for sure, but he was pretty sure Butters had overdosed on these things. It was crazy – he didn't think Butters had it in him to do such a thing, even if he was so depressed. Good thing Butters had a phone in his room. Kyle removed the receiver from its cradle on the dresser and started dialling._

_A deep, groggy voice answered him. "Butters? What the hell do you want? I have to be at school early tomorrow," it mumbled._

"_Stan, it's mee," Kyle whispered. "I'm at Butters' dad's house. There's something I need to tell you. I need your help as quickly as possible."_

"_Huh? What's going on?"_

_Kyle dropped the volume of his voice even lower. "A little while ago, Butters came over here from his house, trying to get me to let him spend the night because he was scared of his dad. And I would've let him, except that his dad came out and actually _dragged him back to the house by his feet."

_A shocked gasp came from the other end of the line. "No fcking way."_

_"I know. It scared the shit out of me. I figured I ought to go check on him to see if he was okay. I'm in his room right now – I broke in through the window. Dude.. I think he OD'd on sleeping pills or something. He's passed out, and he doesn't look too good. We need to get him to the emergency room."_

"_..Oh my gd," Stan replied, his voice now tinged with urgency. "But why are you calling _me_ about this, dude? Shouldn't you be calling 911? Poison Control? Something?"_

"_No, dumbass," Kyle told him irritably. "We can't cause a scene. Just drive over here and we'll take Butters to the emergency room. You can drive, right?"_

"_Yeah, but not legally," Stan informed him. "I've got a learner's permit, not a license."_

"_I know, I know. Who cares? This is an emergency situation."_

_Stan sighed. "All right, but how the hell am I gonna get the car out of the garage? There's no way my parents aren't going to hear that."_

_Kyle was beginning to get frustrated. "I dunno, take Shelley's car or something. Just get your ass over here, NOW!"_

_Kyle suddenly realized he had been speaking quite loudly. He jumped as he heard a door open across the hall. _DAMMIT,_ he thought, realizing he'd probably been responsible for waking up Mr. Stotch. Fortunately, Kyle was a quick thinker. Turning to the television sitting on Butters' dresser, he pushed the POWER button and dashed behind the bed, lying on the floor so he wouldn't be seen just in case Butters' dad entered the room._

_He ducked his head just as the door opened. "Butters?" came the slurred voice. "Are you on the ph– oh." Footsteps moved toward the dresser; a click of a button, and then silence. "Wish he wouldn't fall asleep with his TV on," the voice muttered as the door shut and the footsteps moved back to wherever they'd come from._

Phew,_ Kyle thought. _Thank God that worked. _All he had to do now was wait for Stan to arrive. Wringing his hands in anticipation, he looked out the open window and prayed that he would show up soon.  
_


	7. Chapter V

_Chapter V_

Floating.

Everything around me was a blur, a fog of colours that faded in and out of each other, and I was levitating between them all, moving back and forth in random directions over which I had no control. I had no idea where I was, nor did I know whether I was dreaming or awake. I had the feeling that someone was saying my name, but I couldn't place the voice. My dad, maybe?

Yes, it was my father. I could see him standing over me, strangely clear amidst the sporadic rainbow that ringed my vision, repeating my name over and over in an irritated tone. This was one of the strangest experiences I'd ever been through. It had to be a dream.

For the time being, however, I decided to play along. "Dad, what do you want?" I asked. Interesting how hard it was to make the words come out. Well, of course - it was just like those nightmares where something is chasing you and you can't get your legs to move, only it was more odd than scary. Still, I hated those kinds of dreams..

I felt a jolt, and the haziness abruptly disappeared from my mind. I blinked and stared ahead, and the face and voice above me were suddenly not my father's, but.. Kyle's. Wait.. Kyle? What was he doing here? And he looked so angry at me - what was his problem?

Looking around, I realized I was in the back of a car, and it was moving. Kyle was leaning over the passenger seat, looking down at me, and his eyebrows suddenly lifted into a surprised expression. "Dude, I think he's awake!" he exclaimed.

"Not now, I'm driving," came another voice. It sounded like Stan, but I couldn't see for sure. Besides, why would he be driving a car? We were all only freshmen in high school - not old enough for a license yet.

The car swerved, jerked to a stop, and then started up again slowly, and I sat up with some effort. I was incredibly dizzy, and I felt as though every action I made was in slow motion. "What's going on?" I asked Kyle, still struggling to pronounce the words.

"We're taking you to the hospital, Butters," he told me.

Automatically, I felt a twinge of fear, followed by confusion. "Uh.. why? What's wrong?"

"We know you overdosed on those sleep-aid things. I found you passed out about twenty minutes ago."

"You - were in my house?" I asked, puzzled.

"Yeah. That's a story for later, though." He looked at me thoughtfully. "I gotta say, you look a lot better than you did, now that you're awake. It creeped me the hell out when I first saw you."

My eyes widened as the memory came back to me. How could he have known I took all that Nytol? He must have guessed or something. I was still very confused about the whole course of events, but I decided to let it go for now. After all, Kyle was trying to help me out, and I trusted him completely.

Kyle turned back toward the driver's seat. "Wait, dude, what are you doing? You can't go that way. That's an exit only."

"Whoa, sorry." The car swerved around again, and I nearly fell off the edge of the back seat.

"Stan? Is that you?" I asked the person behind the wheel.

"Yes, it's me," the driver replied. "Don't talk so loud; I can't concentrate."

I didn't know why he had to have so much quiet when he was just pulling up to the hospital door. That didn't seem so difficult. Once the car came to a stop, I reached for the door-handle and got out of the car -- and gave a repeat performance of earlier in the night. My legs wouldn't hold me up for some reason, and I collapsed onto the ground immediately.

"Butters, are you all right?" Kyle asked as I felt his hands gripping my arms, lifting me up off the concrete. I tried to stand up by myself, but it was as if my legs weren't attached to me; they wouldn't do anything I wanted them to do. As I turned my head to look at him, the world swam around me, and I felt a terrifying surge of vertigo. I couldn't help it -- I screamed.

"Butters, shhh!!" Kyle hissed at me nervously, clapping a hand over my mouth. "Hey, Stan, could you help me over here? I can't just drag this kid into the ER by one arm."

I closed my eyes tightly. The vertigo subsided, and I shuddered in relief. Stan shut and locked the car door and did as Kyle told him, grasping my other arm and wrapping it around his shoulders to keep me standing up straight. Unsteadily, we made it through the doors of Hell's Pass' emergency room and seated ourselves in the waiting section of the triage area.

Hospitals were so disturbing. The presence of all those machines and tubes, the smell of sickness and disinfectant, the fact that so many people had died under this very roof, even the name "Hell's Pass" itself -- they never failed to put me in a thoroughly depressing mood. Seeing the other patients waiting for treatment didn't help much, either. Across from us, a little boy sat holding his mother's hand, whimpering, his right eye swollen almost completely shut and the left one brimming with tears. Beside them, a young woman with a pale, worried face was scratching desperately at her left arm, which was covered with large red blotches -- some kind of severe allergic reaction, I figured. Kyle stayed by my side as Stan went up to the desk toward the back and informed the receptionist of our arrival.

"How are you feeling?" Kyle asked.

"Bad," I replied. At least, I think I replied. I couldn't tell whether my lips were moving or not. The room was starting to dissolve into a blurry patchwork of shapeless colours now, and I felt myself drifting into them, gliding between the flickering hues, watching them move in synchronicity with the movement of my eyes. In the shadows and highlights of them, I could see outlines of shapes and patterns. Some resembled cartoonish faces, some resembled animals, and still others seemed to contain random letters and numbers. I almost felt like a little kid again, staring up at the sky and searching for faces in the clouds, but on an entirely different level. This was fun!

"Leopold Stotch?"

My eyes snapped open. That was weird -- nobody ever called me by my real first name. That voice didn't even sound familiar. Wait -- where the hell was I?

I felt a jab in my side. "Hey, get up," said Kyle. "Here, we'll help you."

The hospital, the emergency department -- that was right. Kyle and Stan took my arms again, and I was led to a little cot on one side of the room, where a nurse was waiting for us. My stomach started to lurch as we staggered along, and I felt increasingly that I was going to throw up any second.

"Now, just sit here, Leopold, and we'll take care of you right away, okay?" the nurse told me in a gentle, Southern-accented voice.

Ew. How I hated that stupid name. "Y-you can call me Butters," I said hastily.

She looked confused, but shrugged. "All right.. Butters," she replied as she stuck a thermometer in my mouth and wrapped a blood-pressure monitor strap onto my upper arm. "Now, what brings you here, hon?"

Now I was a bit embarrassed. "Well, uh.." I mumbled, rubbing my knuckles together uncomfortably under her steady gaze.

"He took too many sleeping pills," Stan interrupted.

"Sleeping pills?" The nurse looked at me again. "What kind?"

"N-Nytol, I think it's called." My old stutter was coming back, the one I'd had as a kid, and I began to feel less tired and more agitated.

The nurse studied the monitor, and her eyes widened. "Pulse is at 120, blood pressure 74/50.." she muttered, writing the numbers down on a little notepad. "How many of those Nytol tablets did you take, babe?"

"Uhh, I think about f-five. Five or six," I told her.

"And how long ago was this?"

"I don't remember." The nauseous feeling rose up higher in my throat, and I nearly choked. "Oh.. oh, geez, I.. think I need to lie down."

"That's okay, hon, just try to relax," she replied. "Just don't worry. Everything's going to be okay."

No. No, it wasn't, as far as I could tell. The thermometer fell out of my mouth and landed on the floor, and I started shaking, more and more until I could barely see or hear anything around me. I thought I was moving again, thought I heard Stan or Kyle shouting something far away, but it could have been my imagination. The world became distorted once again, and my mind plummeted itself rapidly into unconsciousness.

When I awoke again, I was lying under the crisp, white sheet of a patient bed, and it took a few seconds for me to realize that there was a tube in my throat. As I turned my head slightly, I felt it touch the inside of my throat a little, and it made me gag. And then someone was laughing right next to me, I discovered. Laughing!?_ Jerks, _I thought automatically, looking up toward the ceiling in annoyance.

"Hey, Butters, how do you feel?" asked the same voice, still tinged with laughter.

"Don't make fun of me, Stan," I muttered.

More chuckling, this time from Stan, Kyle, and an older woman -- a different nurse this time. "Don't be upset, dear," said the nurse. "We're just happy that you're going to be okay, that's all." I could see her now, a stout woman possibly in her early forties, gazing at me from the side of the bed with a warm smile.

"Not to mention you had the most screwed-up expression on your face when you woke up," Stan added. He and Kyle knelt beside my head, and they too wore genuinely happy expressions.

I sat up and looked at the three of them. The dizziness I had felt earlier was nearly gone, and so was the nausea. "So.. so I am gonna be fine?" I asked.

"You sure are," the nurse stated. "The antidote we gave you should keep any more of the medication from getting absorbed into your system."

My heart rose. "Great!" I exclaimed.

"Your mother's on her way as well," she informed me. "Your friend Kyle -- he called her for you. She should be here any minute."

My heart plunged right back down again, and I was sure there was no way they couldn't have seen that on my face. My _mom_ knew about this? The fact that my parents had to be notified had completely slipped my mind.

Kyle gave me a sympathetic half-frown. "Sorry, man," he murmured. "But if you're under eighteen, you kinda have to tell your parents if you're in the hospital."

"I know that," I sighed. Knowing that didn't make it any better, though. In fact, it reminded me of the reason I'd OD'd in the first place.

And one part of that reason was rushing into the room right now. My mother, still in her rumpled pajamas, tore through the doorway. "Butters, ohmigawd!" she shrieked when she saw me, and her face turned white.

She looked to be in even worse shape than when I'd seen her after Stan's party. Her hair was down, and the condition it was in now reminded me of a frizzy, blond bird's nest. Streaks of dark eye makeup stained her pasty cheeks, and the whites of her eyes were pinkish from crying. The last time I'd seen her like this was when she'd tried to drown me in the car when I was eight, and seeing her now in the same state spooked me. I said the only thing I could think of to say.

"M-Mom, I'm.. sorry.. about this." I choked on the words. She didn't respond; she just stared at me with that horrified, bloodshot gaze.

"Really. I didn't mean for this to happen. I was just desperate, and.. and.."

But she didn't yell or scream or curse -- her gaze was intense, but it contained no trace of anger. Instead, she dashed over to my bed and wrapped her arms about me, squeezing them tightly around my body, and she buried her head into my right shoulder. "No, Butters.. I'm sorry," she whispered. "This is all my fault. I never should have gotten so angry with you like that. I never should have shoved you off on your father. Oh, honey.. I'm so sorry.."

The nurse gave us a concerned look. "Do you two need some time alone?" she asked.

"That'd be nice," my mother told her in a shaky voice.

"Okay. You boys should probably leave for a few minutes," she replied, addressing Stan and Kyle. They obliged, and the nurse turned and led them out of the room.

Gingerly, I slipped my right arm around her and returned the hug. I didn't know what to do, really. It just seemed right, even after the confrontation we'd had the last time we'd seen each other.

"So.. wait, so you're not mad?" I wondered aloud.

"No, honey. Not at you." She took my shoulders and turned me to face her directly. "Butters, I don't ever want you to feel like you have to do _anything_ like this ever again. You're going to be safe and happy_ from now on. _And I'm going to make sure of it."

Such kind and caring words.. protective words I wasn't familiar with hearing at all. That kind of attitude was reserved for other people, for other parents to say to their kids.. not for me. My left cheek felt a bit colder, wetter -- and I discovered that I was crying. Embarrassment flooded over me, though she and I were the only people in the room. Even so, I wiped the tear away as quickly as I felt it -- I was used to doing that.

I turned my head to one side. "And I'm not.. grounded for this, am I?"

Her gaze drifted to the wall behind me. "Well.. no, not exactly. I'm not punishing you. But I think it's best if you just stay at home for a little while. You can go to school, of course," she added quickly, "but I want you to come right home every day, all right?"

No going out. Not even to go to Kyle's house or anything.. not even for when my mother was in another mood of hers. The notion gave me a sinking feeling, but I knew that I had no choice.

I swallowed. "Okay," I replied limply.

She pulled me close to her again, even more tightly this time, and I felt the slight, intermittent jerking of her chest as she began to sob. "My baby, my baby," she murmured, almost chanting, as she looked down toward the floor. "I've ruined my child."

I felt so powerless in her arms, unable to think of what to do or say now. She was telling me all these things at the moment, but what would it be like in the next twelve hours? Would the whole ordeal turn into something that was solely my fault, just like everything else? Or would this act have finally convinced at least one of my parents that maybe I _wasn't _the one to blame for all the shit that happened in their lives? I guessed I would see how things played out soon enough. At this point, all I could do was give her a tentative hug back and hope that she truly meant everything she was telling me -- not just now, but for real. 


End file.
